For the Love of Radio: The hapless adventure of a media-crazed, sex-obsessed moron.

By Ed Mann

Meet Ed, a young, media-obsessed Californian who chose a life on the radio during the 1980s, and soon discovered that the beautiful women he craved were interested in hitching a ride on his journey. After his career took off both on and off the air, so did his troubles with bosses, partners, and those very women who were

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book House Publishing
• Release date: Jul 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952483080

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2950 Newmarket St., Suite 101-358 | Bellingham, WA 98226

Ph: 206.226.3588 | www.bookhouserules.com

Copyright © 2005 & 2020 by Ed Mann

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020913333

ISBN: 978-1-952483-07-3 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-952483-08-0 (eBook)

Editor: Larry Coffman and Pat McEnulty, Winthrop University

Cover design: Chris Grasha and Ed Mann

Interior design and production:

Scott Book & Melissa Vail Coffman

To Mindy, Ethan, and Harrison Mann, with love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Prologue

Ihadn’t walked 50 feet on the blazing-hot sands of Manhattan Beach, and in my bare feet, when the plan came to life. Walking there calmed me, but that afternoon I was in deep thought. No. Deep shit. A wave had just broken, a mist formed, a continuous onslaught to the shore but with each, a surfer finds the slot and takes it in. The next was especially loud, breaking fast, the surfer losing the track. I squinted into the sun, now reflecting off the whitecaps as it does later in the day; piercing that glint, a surfboard flew up in the air. This was their day, every day, wave after wave, and each unique, special, offering a chance at redemption from the last. It reminded me of being on the air; I was only three minutes from the next shot at perfection, or disaster.

What was I thinking? How many laws would I be breaking? How many statutes? There are a ton of statutes. I might as well sit for an orange jumpsuit fitting right now. This wasn’t me, but perhaps it was. I had my partner loading my pants with rocks, taking me for a plunge to depths from which I might not return. I stroked my chin, staring at the sand, tiny particles of quartz shimmering in the heat. I inhaled deeply. I had to be careful. If I were going in to do this, it would have to be at night. Non-reflective clothing. No one around. I had to get confirmation.

While I had access to Stu’s office during the day, there were just too many needle-nosey radio geeks around: DJ’s, sales hounds, groupies, engineer nerds, slouching assistants, pencil pushers. But they all had eyes, and I was one of their fearless leaders, looking to pin the leader of the pack to the mat.

Was this doable? What in my background gave me the cajones to think that I could pull off a caper? Who the fuck did I think I was? I was a disc jockey disguised in a suit. I was fearless at nothing. I chickened out on skydiving, twice. I fell off a horse and never once got back on. I was stung by bees at age two, and the sight of one now makes me run like a princess. Courage? You get a big dose of that when you’re a kid and use it up in small doses, and then you’re a chicken for the rest of your life. I was used up at 35, a soppy, wet beachcomber with ties to no one and nothing but my back seat career. Webster’s had my picture under wimp.

But if I didn’t follow through with this, I’m a schmoe forever. And the girl of my dreams, mist. I would sink or swim with this moment. And if I’m caught, I’ll be hanging out at the Federal Correctional Institution in Pleasanton with Michael Milken watching General Hospital every day while Stu cavorts around in his Bentley, smoking a stogie, laughing it up with the driver on my fucking dime.

This was the day.

"And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"

—Talking Heads, the ’80s

Chapter 1

The Saratoga High School swim season ran throughout the dead of winter, for no apparent reason. I wandered out to the pool with the rest of my young friends at 6:30 a.m. to greet the low temperature of the day, standing at the edge of a 25-yard-long pool, steaming from its 82-degree water meeting the 38-degree air. The Santa Clara swim meet was a week from yesterday, so I dove in like I was racing, my 17-year-old body gliding through the lane like a carp. My coach was screaming along the sidelines, urging us on, even though we couldn’t hear a fucking word with our ears underwater.

After the first 500 yards, he gave us a break to catch our breath and reduce our heart rates. I was heaving, steam pouring from my mouth, mingling with the chlorinated mist hovering above the pool; the outdoor klieg lights highlighting it all like the set of an Ed Wood film—Plan 9 from Outer Space! Man, I loved that movie. I watched it over and over, marveling at the 18-inch waist on the Elvira-like character. A high school buddy renamed the movie Plan 9 from Outer Waist! That was eternally funny to us.

I never breezed through a workout. It never was without monumental cardiovascular effort; I always was heaving. Perhaps it was the bucket of marijuana I smoked through the little bong I hid in my locker before diving in every day. And I never seemed to reach the end of the pool before anyone else, no matter how little I smoked; no athletic scholarship for this Jew. Did that even exist?

Before he blew the whistle for the next gut-tensing set, Coach Demontopari walked over to my lane. Hey, Mann. What are you doing this weekend? he yelled.

I yanked off my goggles—chlorine steam rising from my hair—shrugged and replied, Nothing. Actually, I was planning another beer bust with the neighbors. They had this huge plot of undeveloped land surrounded by apricot orchards, and during the dull winter months we invited ourselves to a stiff brain-cell burn through the wee morning hours. Last July, our swim team hosted a late-night apricot fight there, yanking over-ripe fruit from the trees and pummeling the baseball team into a sugary mess. We’d had enough of being called, swim fags from the adjoining baseball diamond. The local sheriff’s department never noticed us, winter or summer—no streetlights allowed in our perfect little party town.

My brother has a diving meet at Awalt High. Do you want to announce it? coach asked.

I was stunned. Awalt was a school down the way from Saratoga. The Awalt meet was huge, the biggest in the district. Coach’s brother was the diving coach there, and he was recommending me for the job of PA announcer. What I’d done to deserve this honor was a mystery to me. My voice? It was loud enough to find me in detention at least once a month.

Sure, I replied, gasping. "Party? What party?"

Coach gave me the time and place, and I went straight home to brag to my parents. Mom was thrilled. Dad—I could only guess.

The day of the meet arrived, so I got busy preparing in my bedroom.

"And now, a one-and-a-half pike from diver number three. Please—silence in the arena. Yes! A beautiful pike dive! Judges—scores please. Five-and-a-half, six, four-and-a-half, five. Thank you, judges."

I was practicing in front of an old Shure ribbon mic I found in my dad’s closet. I worked hard to keep my voice low. At my age, it sounded like a squawk, but compared with my classmates, I was Vin Scully.

What my coach and my parents didn’t know is that I longed to sound like a sports announcer. I listened to LA Dodger games on KFI, heard even in Northern California, and imagined how much fun it would be to have my voice admired like Scully’s: rich, elastic, full. It was one of those private dreams kids have in towns like ’toga, where the boom of a big city can only be heard over the radio, so when Coach Demontopari approached me that day at the pool, it was as if my dream was slowing unfolding, gaining momentum, and coming true.

My parents dropped me off at Awalt at the appointed time. I brought only my voice. That astounded me. And I wouldn’t have to expend one ounce of energy flailing my arms about in an under-heated pool, so over-chlorinated that my hair crackled when I touched it. Nope, I’d be dry, warm. I marched to the announcer’s booth—more like a card table with a blue cloth over it—and sat down in front of a large public-address mic. It resembled the one on Johnny Carson’s desk on the Tonight Show, swiveling up toward my mouth, prompting me to speak into its narrow, shiny silvery strips encircling dark wiring, strung tighter than cat gut. My big moment was approaching. A star is born!

Excited parents and students filled the arena. It was sunny and bright that day with a smattering of clouds, permitting the divers a reflection of something besides the tips of their toes as they stared down into the otherwise clear abyss of deep, blue water. The crowd hushed as each diver approached, knowing how critical it was to permit them perfect concentration on their task. There were no fist bumps or high fives up there on the board, only solitary deliberations. They were diving monks. Nothing else matters but the dive.

I figured that my announcing had to reflect that, and there were a number of ways of handling it. I could have gone with brash, loud basketball-arena guy, or mumbling football color-commentator dude, but decided on hushed golf announcer. Then I could let loose with major volume to mention the crucial judges’ scores as the assembled throngs applauded wildly, admiring my thundering voice box. My imagination careened.

The first diver approached, my heart pounding through my shirt. I was far less prepared for this than the diver, who seemed cool and relaxed under the pressure. He got to practice for weeks. I got to practice not at all. I tentatively announced, Diver number one will perform an inside one-and-a-half pike, degree of difficulty, two.

Well, that went well. My voice echoed back to me like Lou Gehrig’s at Yankee Stadium, saying his final goodbye. I couldn’t help but smile. I wondered how many in attendance thought I sounded as cool as I thought I sounded. The delusion of echo.

The chiseled diver approached and executed his dive without a hitch; he sliced into the water like a butter knife and left but a hint of a splash where he had entered. Thunderous applause. Judge’s scores: Five, five-and-a-half, five, five-and-a-half. All good scores. I glanced over at Coach Demontopari and his brother. No reaction, just crossed arms. They were waiting for this to be over so they could leave and drink.

The next diver approached. Diver number two will attempt a backwards one-and-a-half tuck. Degree of difficulty, three-point-five. Silence please. I got cocky and left the mic on in anticipation of the announcement of the final scores. "Why should I flip the switch on and off constantly?" The diver, no older than I and thinner than a cigarette, approached the three-meter board deliberately and stopped about three paces from the end. This particular board bounces up and down on springs as compared with the higher five-and 10-meter boards that are nothing more than slabs of cement jutting over the pool. These monstrosities are reserved for divers far more graceful than cigarette boy, who had to walk toward the end, jump up, land on the end of the springboard, spin backwards and flip slowly while tucking his knobby knees toward his chest, his oversized puppy-dog feet flailing, his forward momentum carrying him past the board, then extending hands and fingers to slice cleanly into the water. No errors. That was his plan.

Diver number two stood at attention, stuck his arms out in dual Heil Hitler fashion, lowered them, locked his elbows, and marched slowly to the end of the board. He made his jump, but his back was too arched, his momentum halted. As gravity often insures, he descended, began his backward flip, and banged the back of his head flat on the board with a twack.

I had the mic near my mouth and yelped, Oh, SSSHHHIIITTT!

The sound reverberated for an hour. Little children in the stands were crying. Coach Demontopari sauntered over, arms still crossed, leaned down to my level and whispered in my ear, Stop fucking with the goddamn mic! Needless to say, there were more judges’ scores to announce, but I got a zero.

The next day, I felt less for my misadventure than for the poor diver. But after the Fog of Gore passed, I became the designated announcer at my high school, the most important job on campus. Well, at least to me. I could preach to the students, and they could admire me. I was announcing the lunch menu, the next student assembly, the color of my pants. I was the focal point for doing nothing but talking. I had their attention without butting into a conversation in the quad, or sliding into a key seat in the cafeteria, or joining the football team, where I could get seriously injured. Oh, really. What about diving! I just flipped the mic on, and everyone knew my name.

After my graduation in 1975, I took my local fame and headed south to Los Angeles, home of Mr. Scully, show business, movie stars. LA, of course, was a media hub, and I wanted to learn all about it. I enrolled at UCLA, arriving at the peak of the smog season. I climbed out of the car fully expecting to choke to death on sulfur and ozone, but instead I got a nose full of my mother’s well-scrubbed kitchen floor. I grinned and said to myself, "Pine Sol." Pine needles were strewn all about, and the old growth of evergreen trees gave the campus the air of a country home in the foothills of the Sierras. Of course, it was set in the foothills of Bel Air, neighboring the homes of Charles Bronson, Bob Newhart and other country dwellers. We were planted in a semi-suburban golden ghetto, and it felt like the real world of hard knocks and grizzled urban life was worlds away. It was actually just down Wilshire Blvd.

The legendary smog kicked in 48 hours after my arrival. The sky was filthy brown for days at a time. Catalytic converters were on maybe five cars. The snow-capped mountains I’d seen in postcards were invisible. My eyes stung, my nose burned, my breath was short, my workload kicked in, but I was ebullient and giddy at the prospect of being surrounded by show business while dead pine needles crunched underfoot. I felt like I could be a part of it all. And I found the campus radio station without directions. I knew just where I was going. I could even see it through the thick, brown air, but I had to get my bearings.

I often took drives around the surrounding Hollywood Hills and once ran into a movie shoot on a lonely street, so naturally, I pulled over to get a closer view. I approached a big-bellied, uber-serious cop, who was guarding the phalanx of trailers and boom mics.

What’s up? What are they shooting? I asked.

His eyes narrowed as if a fly was approaching his nose. He replied, "It’s called Shampoo."

"Shampoo? They’re shooting shampoo? What is it then, a commercial—the pitch of my voice rising higher with each word.

The cop’s face reddened, he took a long breath, and sighed. "No, kid. The picture’s called Shampoo. It stars Warren Beatty and Julie Christie. Now get moving before you find yourself in the shot. I inched back slowly but was bouncing around inside myself. And he called it a picture," like it was from my camera.

Some guy, must have been one of the director’s assistants, announced, Okay, let’s get another one in while we’ve got the light. This is take four. Then another guy yelled, Speed! at the top of his lungs, and then I heard, Action! Then, nothing, for like 10 seconds. Suddenly, here comes Beatty roaring from my right on a motorcycle, and off around a sharp corner until the engine could be heard no longer. I could see his hair for miles. Then, And scene! Cut, and print! Dozens of crew were moving equipment around at lightning speed.

The cop, getting redder by the second, motioned for me to leave, so I turned tail and jumped back into my little car, dreaming all the way home—not of the movie star on the bike, but of the announcer who yelled at the crew—every one of whom listened as if Moses were speaking to them from Mt. Sinai.

I spent every spare moment away from my studies at the campus radio station, a shack carved out of the back of the student union. It smelled from the dust of a thousand record sleeves, of ash from cigarettes, and was less glamorous than my imagination forecast. I wanted to learn all about control boards, and mixing, and recording, and radio waves. I already knew all about the artists, like Pablo Cruise, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Yes, Devo, Earth, Wind and Fire.

For each airshift, I tucked myself into the cubbyhole of a studio and sat down in front of an old mic hanging precariously from a metal contraption clipped to the front of a control board. I played what I wanted and talked about what I wished. A dog-eared sign on the wall said, Free Speech! written in bold, black ink, with a rusting peace sign in the corner. They hadn’t washed the hippies out of the building yet. Hiking back to the dorms from the studio, I was a hero. Fellow students clapped me on the back, saying, Good show, Ed, as they passed by. In my cramped dorm room with the door swung open, I leaned back on my bed, my listeners greeting me as they wound their way down the hall like a reception line at a wedding.

I was exhausted after one late-night shift, trekked back to the dorms, and couldn’t wait to plop onto the bed—the door open, as always. Some student I’d never seen parked himself in the doorway unannounced, wearing a tie-dye T-shirt, carrying a beer—his immature facial hair straggling from his chin like a pre-pubescent beatnik.

Hey, Mann, what was that shit on the radio about the Dead Kennedys? You a fascist or something?

First off, who are you, and what are you talking about? My mind raced back to my on-air rap. I couldn’t remember.

You said, Screw the Dead Kennedys and their dead babies. Was that supposed to be funny? We were 12 years out since the assassination of JFK, but this guy thought it was yesterday. And I wasn’t talking about the real dead Kennedys, but the punk band that rocked underground hits like California, Uber Alles. I thought they were great, and on the air I had said, My own sister wants to screw the Dead Kennedys and have their dead babies. It was cruel and bizarre, but that was the non-PC climate of the times.

No man, I was saying that my sister should screw them. Not you.

Clearly stoned or drunk, he persisted. Why would I screw a Dead Kennedy, man? Are you demented or some kind of Republican?

Well, I’m not a Republican.

He chugged the rest of his beverage and said, Cool then. Check you later, man.

I spent the rest of the night rolling tape in my head of everything I said on the radio that day and how crazy it must have sounded. Not everyone was going to dig me.

Students ran our little campus radio station, some more experienced than others. The next day, I went to the head of the station to discuss the dorm complaint. He was a big-time senior and practically lived there. He smelled worse than the old record sleeves.

Lanny, how far can I go with my material at the station? I think people might react wrong, you know, get the wrong message.

Well, stop talking so much. This isn’t stand-up. What are you, an egomaniac?

I was shocked at his matter-of-fact solution. I’m just diggin’ the music and playing songs for friends. That’s all I ever thought of this gig.

You gotta talk the walk. You have talent, Ed, and you may want to consider the morning show. The morning show was the most listened to daypart at the station, at any station. My chest rose up an inch with the boost, but I still had an issue with his bullshit review.

But you said I was an egomaniac.

"Of course you are. It’s about you. You can’t worry about what other people are going to say about your act. Are you interested?"

Hell, yes! I screamed.

See?

And with that, I was the new morning man. Same show, insane time of day. Working in the morning was anathema to college life; the show began at 6 a.m. each day and ran till 8 a.m., so I could get to class. Six fucking a.m.! In my desire to spread my humor and good-natured personality to the associated students of the University of California at Los Angeles, I felt the genuine need to split my time as a responsible broadcaster and as an irresponsible fraternity member, sworn to drink beer, smoke dope, and study whenever I stumbled into the library.

Jesus, Ed. What are you doing in the john so long? asked one of my frat pals as he entered the hallway bathroom, which hadn’t been cleaned since the Watts riots.

What does it sound like, moron? I’m throwing up.

Are you nervous before your show? It was 5:30 in the morning and I had to be at the station in 30 minutes. My Bud Lights were filling the toilet fast.

Yeah, and this calms my nerves asshole. I was on all fours, cursing my decision to do this fucking radio show every day.

I cleaned my face and ran down to the station.

Suddenly sober as a clam, I announced, Good morning, UCLA! We’re looking at a high of 75 this Thursday and here’s the deal. Get up, go to class, forget everything you learned, and start all over again. Here’s to you. I then played a sound effect of a beer can popping open while I slugged it down, with the This Bud’s for You theme song in the background. This almost made me hurl again. My news guy, Pete, shook his head in disappointment. He was my straight foil and kept the show in line. But I was the host and was going to do what I wanted until Lanny or the chancellor came barging into the room to stop me. Free speech, baby!

One day I was on a tirade. I came out of a Yes record, Roundabout, and started in.

The school has got to improve. There are cracks all over Bruin Walk and some skateboarder’s gonna get killed. Here comes one now! Then I hit a sound effect of a screeching car slamming into a tree,